The Secret Life of SQ Pedalian
by Spark Writer
Summary: A story centered around dear old S.Q. Adventures, trials, social slights and all that jazz. Review!
1. Chapter 1

**S.Q. has always been a favorite character of mine, so I thought I'd write a story centered around him. This take place at the Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened, before Reynie, Kate, Sticky and Constance attend. Thanks for reading!**

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It was a morning like any other.

S.Q. Pedalian rolled out of bed, sleep rumpled and puffy-eyed. He pulled on his striped pants, his shirt and sash, and absently ran his fingers through his hair. If mirrors were permitted in the Institute, he would have seen the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight frown that remained between his brows, day and night. Perhaps he might have wondered why he looked that way; he was extremely happy, after all.

Wasn't he?

Becoming aware that he was actually questioning his own happiness, S.Q.'s frown deepened. "That's enough of that," he murmured. "No more thinking."

And he strode out of his room and into the gleaming corridor. A few Helpers lingered nearby, purposely avoiding eye contact with the Executives, concentrating only on their mops and brooms. As he always did, S.Q. raised his hand in a perfunctory wave. "Good morning!"

One of the Helpers, a mousy sort of woman, flushed, clearly unsure how to react. She ducked her chin and began voraciously scrubbing the tiles. Unperturbed, S.Q. strolled along the hallway, around a corner and down a set of stairs. Rather unfortunately, he lost his footing on the second to last stair, and crashed to the floor, wincing. A well-muscled arm appeared before him. "Need a hand?"

Looking up, S.Q. was surprised to see Jillson, Jackson behind her and making no effort to conceal his mirth. "Shall we take you to the infirmary?" the young man asked around an impressive smirk.

"Er, no, that won't be necessary." S.Q. struggled to his feet, relieved that he was no longer the object of their mocking. "Thanks, anyway."

"You really ought to watch your step," Jackson advised. "Imagine sprawling like that in front of Mr. Curtain! It would be terribly disrespectful, you know."

"Yes, I know." S.Q. knelt, inspecting the impeccable floor for shoe scuffs. Finding none, he rose to his full height and smoothed his sash. "Breakfast?"

"Sorry," Jackson drawled. "I'm afraid Jillson and I already have plans."

Jillson's eyes glinted with greedy excitement. "We've booked an appointment with the Whisperer."

At the mere mention of the Whisperer, something within S.Q. jumped, aching with envy. He could feel it, the primal longing to sink into that blissful fog. The deep desire to forget his fears.

"It's a top secret appointment, too," said Jackson. "So this information goes nowhere, got it?"

"I won't say a word." S.Q. bowed his head and hurried off in the opposite direction. No longer sustaining an appetite, it was simply muscle-memory that led him into the dull mist of the morning, across the grounds, and into the cafeteria. Already it was swarming with students, chattering cheerily about all manner of the things. S.Q. gloomily selected a muffin, and headed toward the Executive's table, careful not to trip. Before he could slip into the last remaining seat, Martina Crowe slid gracefully in, plopping her tray on the table and utterly ignoring S.Q.

There was a small scuffle as all the Executives tried to talk to Martina at once. She tossed her raven-hair and grinned, looking like that cat that had swallowed the canary.

"Excuse me," said S.Q. apologetically.

Martina turned around. "Yes?" she barked.

"Erm, you're well…you're not…you aren't an Executive."

Martina narrowed her eyes. "Well, you're not getting your seat back. Finders keepers." And she turned her back.

Momentarily stunned, S.Q. walked away, convinced he could feel the hostile gazes of his fellow Executives burning through his shirt and stinging his back. Abandoning the cafeteria, he sped down the empty corridors and out into the courtyard. The sun was out, burning off the mist. He sat down on a bench, dejected. So miserable was he that his brain did not register the faint buzzing and whirring growing nearer and nearer.

"S.Q!"

S.Q. started, and looked into a pair of reflective glasses. "Mr. Curtain, sir!" He leaped to his over-sized feet. "Do you need any assistance, sir?"

"Assistance, no." Mr. Curtain looked mildly annoyed. "What I _would _like, is to know why you're loitering about on a Monday morning. Work never stops, S.Q.; that is something you must understand."

"Oh, I do, sir, I do! I just—" he paused. "I just thought the Helpers might need some supervision." He gestured toward a distant huddle of Helpers removing rubble from the shore.

"Ah." Mt. Curtain swiveled in his chair, appraising the scene. "A highly admirable duty, S.Q. I misjudged you." He clapped his hands together. "Now. Let us walk."

S.Q. felt rather off-put by Mr. Curtain's ceaseless gliding, as they "walked" together. He didn't like speaking to someone whose head was at his own waist level.

"Eh, Mr. Curtain, I thought you were supposed to be in your office. I heard about the Whisperer."

"Ah, yes!" Mr. Curtain grinned, then frowned a bit. "But do keep your voice down, S.Q. This particular session with the Whisperer is quite confidential. It's not a casual conversation starter, young man!"

"Sorry. Sir!" S.Q. had almost forgotten the respectful monosyllable.

"How is Martina this morning?"

"Oh…" S.Q. hated lying, but what was he supposed to say? That the sly young woman took his customary seat at the Executive table and refused to relinquish it? "She's sharp as ever," he muttered lamely.

"Excellent!" Mr. Curtain stopped abruptly, causing poor S.Q. to trip over his back wheel. "Do mind your step, S.Q. You're forever flailing about and it detracts from my fragile concentration process. Now, I have a job for you."

Within ten minutes, S.Q. was giving Jackson orders (oh joy of all joys) to take over his morning classes, kicking the boulder and entering the secret passageway. He strode into the brightly lit hall and descended the steep carpeted slope. Down, down, down he walked, passing the door to the waiting room—he shivered, remember his own time spent there—and at last he reached the passage that branched to the left. Arriving at the austere metal door, he paused. "Oh dear," he muttered. "I've forgotten the passcode." Wracking his brains, S.Q. remembered that because Mr. Curtain had recently celebrated his birthday, the number code had something to do with that. If only he could remember the year, though. Drat.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he leaped away from the door, embarrassed, and dropped to the carpet.

"What are you doing?" A wiry executive with close-cropped blond hair was peering down at him. It seemed that S.Q. had been on the floor quite a lot that morning.

"I dropped something," S.Q. replied hastily.

Shrugging, the young man turned away and punched the passcode into the keypad. "It is 6738, right?"

"Yes!" yelped S.Q. He flushed. "Ahem, yes, of course. Smart of you to check."

"Are you coming?" Bradley-the-executive held the door open.

S.Q. unfolded himself and followed Bradley into the printing room. "I just need to grab Mr. Curtain's cup of juice, then I'll be out of your hair." Bradley snatched a plastic cup half-full of liquid perched on a crate, and ducked from the room. Alone again, S.Q. made a quick search of the room, found the propaganda pamphlets he was looking for, and laid one carefully in the copy machine. He looked at the penned message on his palm. Mr. Curtain had requested 200 copies of the leaflets. Leaflets with slogans like, "Make the Choice to L.I.V.E," and "L.I.V.E to the Fullest." A great deal of mail circulated in and out of the Institute for the Very Enlightened, so S.Q. assumed that Mr. Curtain intended to send the brochures to a public business in Stonetown. "Advertising rights," he called it. Settling down atop a stack of crates three high, S.Q. stared absently at the wall opposite. His thoughts turned to daydreams, which turned to real dreams as his head drooped dangerously toward his chest.

"Preposterous!" someone shouted, startling S.Q. from his doze. "Are you telling me that eight students must be sent to the Waiting Room? Snakes and dogs!"

"Sir, five of them were caught cheating, two of them spoke out of turn, and the last one refused to hand in her homework!"

"And what will you do about it, Jackson? I don't have time to deal with these young scoundrels."

"Sir, that's what the Waiting Room is for, is it not? For rule breakers?"

"Even so, I will not tolerate all this disobedience. Something must be done. Just last week, there were six children!"

S.Q. hovered near the door, listening with all his might. Mr. Curtain spoke again.

"These problems are trivial, Jackson. Deal with them efficiently and move on, do you understand? I'm occupied with other matters." There was a brief interlude, in which Mr. Curtain must have been typing the passcode, for he zoomed in a moment later, nearly knocking S.Q. flat.

"For God's sakes, S.Q.!" he roared. "Out of my way!"

"Sorry, sir." S.Q. staggered about, clutching his toe. In a rare gesture of kindness, Jackson steadied S.Q., and went to the copy machine, frowning.

"Has the machine jammed today?"

"Jammed?" S.Q. shook his head vehemently. "No, it's fine as leather."

There was a most awkward pause. Mr. Curtain glared at S.Q. over the rim of juice cup like a temperamental toddler (which might have been comical at any other moment) and said, "I believe you mean _fine as a feather."_

"Yes," said S.Q., "That as well."

"Good," said Jackson. "It stuck when Jillson was making copies yesterday, and with your lack of technological prowess, I was sure it would be blocked by now."

S.Q. felt his cheeks go hot. To mask his embarrassment, he turned to his superior. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Curtain?"

"More juice," he snapped, brandishing his empty cup. "Make it quick!"

"Coming up!" S.Q. left the room, sped up the hallway, glanced sympathetically at the line of blindfolded students by the Waiting Room, and hurried into the entrance hall. If this was any inclination, it would be an extremely long day.

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**Kind of a boring chapter end, I know, but would you mind telling me what you thought of the style and content? And character portrayal?**

**Thanks a million,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hurray for impending chaos!**

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S.Q. had been sitting in a classroom at his sturdy wooden desk, frowning over his students' less than accurate homework answers when chaos broke loose. A scrawny Messenger girl with mouse brown hair rushed into the room, her cheeks flushed with urgency and anxiety.

"P-p-please c-come…" She paused and took a deep breath. S.Q. set his work aside, mildly concerned. "W-would you come to Mr. Curtain's office. Please?" She ducked her head.

Rising to his feet and knocking over a jar of pencils, S.Q. nodded. "Right-o. What seems to be the matter?"

"I'm not allowed to s-say."

Leaving the young girl to blush and stutter her way along, S.Q. loped down the corridor, so intent on his mission that he didn't notice the Helpers leaping aside. They'd had their toes stepped on too many times, and didn't care for it to happen again. Eventually, he converged with a great, gabbling group of Executives on their way to the Boulder. Some were laughing; others had expressions of utmost anxiety, while Jackson and Jillson walked side by side and cracked their knuckles menacingly.

"Have you heard?" Jillson called to S.Q.

"No, what's going on?"

Jillson glanced around, as though certain someone was hovering nearby, eavesdropping. She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "Someone spiked Mr. Curtain's juice."

"What?! No! It can't be!" S.Q. was confused and more than a little angry. How dare someone tamper with Mr. Curtain's juice? It was wrong!

"It's true," added Jackson, skirting a surreptitiously placed drape-weed trap. "Probably some idiot Messenger. There's been a lot of rule breaking, lately. It just won't stand."

"Is Mr. Curtain alright?"

Jillson's frown grew deeper. "Whatever it was that was put in the punch is making Mr. Curtain do ridiculous things! He tried to destruct The Whisperer!"

S.Q .gasped sharply. This was far worse than he'd suspected.

"A couple of Helpers are restraining him," sneered Jackson. "That's about all they're good for. I'm to fetch a relaxant to give to Mr. Curtain, and we can only hope he'll sleep it out. This sort of shenanigan is pathetic. I'll sniff out the culprit if it's the last thing I do."

Jillson nodded in vehement agreement. "I hate kids that think it's okay to disrupt the order of things. It's beastly!"

Silence fell over the group at Jackson kicked at the boulder, waited for the stone archway to appear, and moved through it. Instead of laboring up the flights of stairs, they took the elevator in groups; Jackson, Jillson, S.Q. and four others were first. They rode in silence; a few glares were exchanged. Someone coughed. It seemed that each person suspected the other, and S.Q. was no exception. In fact, he was most likely the other executives top suspect. Even Jillson and Jackson kept a bit of distance. At last, the elevator doors slid heavily open, and seven Executives tottered onto the stone landing. Jillson punched the intercom in the wall, and shouted into it.

"Martina, open up—it's us!"

S.Q.'s mood soured slightly. What was Martina Crowe doing in Mr. Curtain's office during this crisis? No other Messengers were allowed that privilege. Before he could ponder any further, the great metal door slid open and they dashed through. A disturbing sight met their eyes.

In the center of a group of care-worn looking Helpers, Mr. Curtain was writhing (though still strapped in his wheelchair) and bellowing nonsensical phrases like, "A giraffe and a helicopter squared equals half a dead duck!"

To the left, Martina was watching her supervisor with a kind of horror. She obviously hated seeing him in a state of weakness and loss of Control. "You took your time!" she screeched at the new arrivals.

Jillson rolled her eyes. "Listen, Martina, we got here as fast as we could—what more do you want?"

"Go get the tranquilizer, Jackson! Now!" Jackson spun on his heel and took off down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.

"Hang on just a red-hot minute!" Jillson glowered at Martina. "Who says we have to take orders from you, squirt?"

"This is a disaster," howled Martina, "so it doesn't matter who's ordering who around. It's all the same in the end!"

"Fine," said Jillson. She folded her arms. "Fine, then. Why don't _you _go and get all the students into the cafeteria. Start questioning them, will you? We must find out who did…_this_!" She flapped her arms in Mr. Curtain's direction ("Yo-yos are magnificent works of Nature!") and jabbed a finger in S.Q.'s chest. "You too, S.Q. Go interrogate."

XxxxxxxxX

The cafeteria was completely packed with students, yet a fog of weighty, meaningful silence hung over the room. No one spoke, no one moved, no dared even breathe loudly. It was rather frightening. S.Q. and Martina exchanged mutual dirty looks, and turned to the expectant crowd.

"Listen up, everyone!" Martina crossed her arms. "Would you like to know where Mr. Curtain is, right now?"

Silence.

"He's in his office, being held down by Helpers because his veins are full of some nasty drug that's made him lose his mental capabilities!" She sniffed in anger. "One of you spiked his juice! It's a pitiful prank, and whoever's responsible is going to wish they'd never been born, got it?

A few squeaks of consent punctuated the stillness. "Good." Martina stared smugly at the children. "Now—if you know anything about this, anything at all, I demand you come forward!"

S.Q. coughed into his fist, uncomfortable with the inhospitable stares of the students. No doubt many of them thought _he _was the one responsible.

A boy raised his hand. "Yes, Carson?" S.Q. asked.

"What if it wasn't one of us?" The boy's eyebrows lifted ever-so-slightly. "Perhaps it was _an Executive."_

Whispers broke out all over the room; students exchanged meaningful looks with one another.

"Bull," said Martina, calmly. "You know very well it was one of you." She stroked a lock of her hair, and said, "But if I hear so much as one word out of you, you'll be in the Waiting Room so fast you won't know what happened."

Someone yelped in distress, a boy and girl who had had unfortunate visits to the Waiting Room began to sniffle, and Carson went deathly pale. He mouthed "Sorry," and ducked his chin. Martina opened her big mouth to speak, but S.Q.'s walkie-talkie cut her off with an ear-splitting squawk. Everyone yelled and clutched their ears. He put the device to his mouth. "What now?"

Jackson's voice came over sounding crackly and distorted. "We've got a problem…Mr. Curtain's on the loose!"

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**Reviews make me happy. :D**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three's a bit shorter; enjoy it anyhow!**

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Jumping down from the table on which he and Martina stood, S.Q. glanced apprehensively at the wide double doors, as though expecting Mr. Curtain to come rocketing through them, terrorizing every student in his path. The students closest to S.Q. had heard the news; it spread quickly through the lunchroom.

A few Messengers raised their hands. "Is there anything we can do?" one asked.

Martina seized her opportunity. "Yes! Keep everyone in here—no leaving, do you understand—and keep the doors closed and bolted. S.Q. and I will have to leave." She, too, hopped down onto the tiled floor and strode between the tables toward the exit, S.Q. hot on her heels. They sped down the hallway, and once outside, Martina went left and S.Q. went right. Alone at last, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. "Jackson, where's Mr. Curtain? Over."

With a loud _ksssshhhhh,_ Jackson's voice came through. "S.Q., we're near the boulder. Hurry, we're afraid _he_ might fall in one of his own traps. Over."

S.Q. shivered at the thought of Mr. Curtain plummeting to his death, his wheelchair acting as a perfect anchor. "Rodger that."

"Stop trying to sound cool, S.Q. Over and out."

S.Q. smiled. "Good buddy," he finished. "Over and out."

"Shut up, S.Q." said Jackson, and went quiet.

Shoving the walkie-talkie into his trouser pocket, S.Q. dashed across the stone courtyard, and up the path toward the boulder, dunes and fatal drape-weed traps. He heard people before he saw them, as there was a loud and unpleasant mixture of war cries and angry bellows. Sprinting over, he tripped on Jillson's foot ("Watch it, you dunce!") and had to cling to a tree trunk to regain his balance. A large slew of Helpers looked on with thinly veiled panic, and stood huddled in a close bunch, unspeaking and pale. The guards on the bridge were having a terrible day. One had already spilled his hot morning coffee, another had mistaken her shock watch for her real watch—therefore electrocuting herself—and yet another had had to leap into the water surrounding the island to avoid being flattened as Mr. Curtain zipped tipsily along.

Now, alternately burned, electrified, and sopping, the bridge guards were compelled to chase after Mr. Curtain, making up a few new swear words as they went. Among them, Jackson was hustling along, brandishing a frightening silver tranquilizing needle and looking positively deranged. "Come back, sir, come back!" he shouted.

Jillson coughed, but S.Q. detected a note of amusement. "Enjoy the show," she chuckled, slid into a cross-legged position, and sat back to enjoy the ridiculous spectacle. The guard who had shocked herself (her hair was currently standing thirteen inches above her scalp) dashed around a large pine tree, so very close to blocking her boss's path. Then she went down.

Down, down, down into a one of those blasted drape-weed traps.

S.Q. staggered forward, heart pounding. Was the bridge guard alive? She hadn't even screamed! He and the other Executives sprinted to the narrow hole and looked down. Rolling up in his battered wheel chair, Mr. Curtain stared down at her, annoyed. "Snakes and dogs, Linda" he muttered, almost lazily, "what on earth are you doing in a hole?"

"I fell," she groaned, rubbing her hip.

"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle," said Mr. Curtain, before slumping forward into a sound sleep. Jackson stumbled up, clutching his stomach and panting. He looked at the tranquilizer needle for a moment, glared at it, and tossed it into a nearby shrub.

"It's not like we need anymore," he said the onlookers at large. "Alright, everyone, help me lift him up. We'll have to carry him back to his office."

There was a general groan of dissatisfaction. S.Q., for one, didn't feel a single regret. He cheerfully put his back into it, and did his best to haul the sleeping Mr. Curtain back into an elevator and into his austere office. He felt odd as he stared at the man whose reflective glasses had become askew and whose hair was tremendously mussed. As though he shouldn't leave, as though someone should be there when Mr. Curtain woke up.

Shouldn't they?

He crinkled his brows and rubbed his closed eyes with the flat of his palms, a dead exhaustion seeping into his bones. He found himself wondering how long it had been since _he'd _had a good long nap.

"What are you doing?"

S.Q. looked up, startled, and saw Martina glaring suspiciously from the doorway. "We still have to pin the culprit, S.Q.! Stop zoning out, would you?"

He waved her off. "Go on ahead. Better early than never—no, better never than late…oh dear." He sighed heavily.

"Better late than never?" Martina rolled her eyes with an air of utmost superiority. She turned to leave, muttering something that sounded to S.Q. very much like, "_Some executive_."

But he didn't bother stopping her. He was spectacularly tired. And very suddenly, the unforgiving stone floor looked quite comfortable, so he sank down upon it. "If you can hear me, Mr. Curtain, sir," he murmured, "I didn't spike your juice. I'd swear it on my life."

With those final words, his lids fell shut and he slipped into half-conscious dreams, ready to wake the moment Mr. Curtain stirred.

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**Hugs to those of you understand the importance of reviews!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


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